


Unforced Error

by anomalation



Category: You (TV 2018)
Genre: A Whiff of Gay, F/M, Happy Murder Family, Joe's too repressed for anything more, Just a taste, Other, briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:33:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23763883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalation/pseuds/anomalation
Summary: What might have happened if the cop didn't show up, and Forty didn't die. Found family, scheming together, and of course, Love wins in the end.
Relationships: Forty Quinn & Love Quinn, Joe Goldberg/Forty Quinn, Joe Goldberg/Love Quinn
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	Unforced Error

**Author's Note:**

> It's not a major character death if Joe dies, right? We all low-key want him to. 
> 
> tw: inaccurate field medicine, referenced suicide (actually murder)

Figures your brother can't even kill me properly. He tries, I'll give him that. Finger on the trigger and everything, even though tears are rolling down his face, but you save me. You go for the gun, and the two of you struggle for a second and then the next thing I know, you're on the ground with a pool of blood rapidly growing around you. And for a second, I wonder if this is the end of you and me, of us. Our love so ingloriously finished by an accidental bullet from your twin. But you're still breathing. The gun's on the ground, and Forty drops to his knees, sobbing somewhat incoherently about what he's done.

He won't save your life, I can tell. He has no idea what to do. You're the one who finds the hole in your upper arm. "Call 911," you tell him, your voice impressively steady. And then you look at me.

You killed Delilah. You killed Candace - not that I loved her anymore, but it’s the principle. It’s hard to want to save your life when I couldn’t save Delilah’s. I’m prepared for you to beg for my help. “Get out of here,” you tell me. “You don’t need to be part of this.”

I can’t go. I’m more surprised than you are. “You’re bleeding out,” I say. Not my smartest remark, but Forty is still petrified, he isn’t stopping the blood flow at all and he hasn’t called the ambulance and this is all just a lot. I need a second. I blink. And when I blink, for a second, I see my mother.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, and you’re lying to me. You’re trying to protect me. And oddly, I hear the same thing in my mother’s voice. _I’ll be fine_.

I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know I can’t watch you die.

First I get the gun. It’s forgotten off to one side, so I go pick it up and empty it, all the bullets and the clip on the floor. Next, I handle you. “Forty,” I say. I have to say it again, more sharply, and put my hand on his shoulder before he registers that I’m talking to him. “Go get aprons. And a sharp knife. Go. Give me your jacket, first,” I add. He doesn’t react, so I pull the coat off of him and push him towards the kitchen. “Go!” Finally he goes.

I kneel next to you, over you. My shoe’s in your blood, it’s everywhere. The first thing I do is “Is there an exit wound?” I ask you.

“I don’t know.”

So I go looking. I find the entry wound, inside, a few inches below your armpit, and there’s a matching hole in the back. So that’s a good start.

You reach up with your good arm, and touch my cheek. “Joe, get out of here. I’ll be fine, go.”

“I can’t.” I gingerly lift your arm up - sorry, I can tell it hurts - and wrap Forty’s jacket around it, tying the arms and tightening it until you grimace. Have I done this before? It’s too easy. 

“What, like you’re worried I’ll tell everyone about your past crimes, for some reason?” you say, and you even manage to make that kind of funny. Which, considering the circumstances, is pretty impressive.

“Well, they’re gonna ask about how you got shot,” I begin.

“I can handle that,” you tell me seriously.

Forty gets back then, with like four aprons and a big chef’s knife. He hands it all over, with no apparent worries, even though he just tried to kill me and is now handing me a deadly weapon. “What do we do now?” he demands, still hysterical. He wipes his eyes on the back of his hand, and then puts his hand on your knee, and tells you how sorry he is. It’s maudlin.

“You need stitches,” I say as I unwrap Forty’s jacket, cut away your sweater. He is not helping at all. Currently, he’s holding your hand in his blood-soaked ones. So alone, I get a piece of one apron folded up around your arm and tie it as tightly as I can. Then we pull you up, sitting, and all just breathe for a second.

“You aren’t bleeding as much as my finger did,” I say. “And I made it like six hours, easy.”

You glare at me, but I see the smile underneath. “That wasn’t aspirational, for me,” you say. “We have a family doctor, he’ll fix this. No questions.” You reach in your purse for your phone, wincing at the motion, but I’ve seen that look on your face. You’re determined.

“Are you sure?” I say.

“We call him for Forty,” you answer, and dial.

Right. Forty. I look at him, now that you’re less imminently in danger. He’s kneeling in front of you. He hasn’t stopped crying, and he’s wiped blood all over his own face in the process, somehow. He’s sort of hiccuping now, head hanging down so I can’t quite make out his face. I’m seriously worried he’s having some sort of mental breakdown - or I would be, if I cared. And you’re still on the phone, talking very evenly, so I can spend a second or two on him.

“Hey,” I say. Again, I have to say his name to get his attention. “Forty.” I tap the closest part of him, his thigh, to get his attention. He still doesn’t look up. “She’s not dying,” I say.

“Oh are you a doctor now too? _Dougie Howser_ plus _Catch Me If You Can_ equals Joe?” he snaps, and then takes a shuddering deep breath.

“Were you saving that?” I ask, but instead of answering he’s crying again. “She’s really not dying. We’re calling a doctor.” He still doesn’t answer. “Hey, I’m trying to tell you, you didn’t kill your sister,” I say louder.

Instead of calming down, he basically falls into me for a hug. He smells like your blood and his sweat, and I can feel his chest still heaving erratically. This is probably because he almost killed you. This has nothing to do with me.

“I wasn’t trying to kill her, I was trying to kill you,” he says unsteadily. “And I don’t know what I was thinking.”

I know what he was thinking. I need to head him off from thinking it again. “You thought I was dangerous,” I say. “And you had a good reason to.” I’m waiting for his agreement. It doesn’t come, he just cries into my chest. “And, what’s changed, anyways?” I ask him, because I can’t resist poking a bruise. “I know how to tie a tourniquet, that’s all it took?”

Forty laughs, but it sounds a lot more like a cough. Wet. Gross. He pulls back to wipe his face again, and smiles at me sheepishly. Okay, so he’s embarrassed. “It… I’m…” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up weird. “I’m so sorry,” he says. Sincerity never sounds like this from anyone else, so obvious. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know. I mean, you did… kill people, didn’t you?” he asks. He almost sounds like Paco. Like he wants me to tell him reality isn’t real. But it’s too late for that, and he’s a grown-up even if he won’t act like it.

“I made mistakes, yes,” I answer carefully. “But I’m not a bad person. Just like you, okay? You told me about the au pair, and I gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

“I know, I know.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing the blood. “I just… I can’t lose Love. I can’t, I’d… fall apart.”

That’s obvious. He’s basically falling apart now. “Go wash, you look crazy,” I tell him, and he obeys.

You’re off the phone now, and you take my hand. Mine are bloody too, actually. Now that I notice. “I’ll talk to him,” you promise. “He’s not coming after you again.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it,” you insist.

I believe you. And you follow through, not even an hour later. When you’re getting stitched together, you ask me to make myself scarce so you can talk to him. Good sense of drama, Love. It’s fun. And after the two of you speak, Forty comes to me.

“I’m really sorry,” he says. Again, the sincerity. I must admit it catches me off-guard. “I understand you won’t be able to trust me for a while, and that actually probably works because I don’t totally trust you either. But I think we can work on this. Like if my mom could forgive my dad after the incident in Brussels, I think we can get there.”

“What happened in Brussels?” I can’t help but ask.

“Long story. Best told over prosecco. But whatever you imagine is probably right.” He claps his hand on my shoulder. “What do you say, Old Sport. Friends again?”

“Friends,” I agree.

“Joe,” you say from across the room. My name in your mouth is as musical as ever. “What are you doing for the next couple of days?”

So that’s how you get us out of here. In two hours we’re on the private jet, headed for your family’s villa in Spain. You assure me it’s quiet, remote. The perfect place to make someone disappear, perhaps. But I’m a little surprised to discover, I’m not looking for ways to make Forty disappear. Of course, that could change once we’ve spent a few days together. I’ll keep you posted.

He falls asleep an hour in, sprawled over two seats. “He always sleeps on planes,” you tell me, looking at him lovingly. I follow your gaze. How would I feel if you were there, a leg hanging over an arm rest, sleeping in a way that is definitely going to give him a crick in his neck. I’d find it pretty cute, I have to admit.

“Hey.” You snap your fingers in front of me. “Stop it. What are you thinking? You know you can tell me anything.”

Almost anything. “I’m just… I’m not used to trusting people either,” I tell you. Most of the truth. More than I’m used to telling. “What’s your plan?” I ask.

“I don’t have a plan,” you say. “I love you both. That’s my plan.”

You love us both. It’s not ideal, but. I have to say I’m not exactly upset. Don’t ask me why. Call me devoted to your happiness, if you have to put a name to it. I know what to say, though. “I love you both, too,” I say, and that makes you smile. I’d do anything to see you smile, I’ll _be_ anything you want. So, for you, let’s give this a shot.

I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. My arm, for starters. My boyfriend’s a murderer, however justified it might’ve been. Forty’s as bad as he gets, basically. His trauma has caught up to him, again, and he’s clingier than ever. And my arm really fucking hurts. But I think the weirdest part of all of this is that I have someone else right here with me. I’m not handling Forty alone. Joe has stepped up. And it’s not like it’s easy for him. I know he’s not naturally… well, I can’t say that he’s not a cuddler. But I almost get the sense that romance gives him a kind of free pass for that stuff. And not to sound weird, but. He never just touches someone who isn’t me. In part because he doesn’t have any friends. But he’s not a guy who pats someone on the shoulder, or touches an arm to get someone’s attention. As I’m saying this, though, I’m wondering if I’m only noticing he didn’t do it because he does _all_ of this shit with Forty.

Honestly, James, I’m almost getting jealous.

I’m not obsessing, before you can ask. We’re just on top of each other in the villa, and we don’t even have to be. Forty’s insisting, Joe’s listening. And I’m listening too, but Joe’s help gives me a lot of chances to see the two of them interacting. To see Forty putting his hand on Joe’s shoulder, or reaching out to grab his wrist and stop him, or throwing an arm out petulantly and trusting that Joe will catch his hand before it knocks something over. I know Forty’s never had that before from someone that isn’t me. But I also know, somehow, that Joe hasn’t either.

Joe’s got walls up - so many walls. More, I’d say, than you, which is saying something considering that you kept your _terminal fucking illness_ from me for months. I promise I’m less mad than before, but I don’t think I’ll ever be totally over it. That’s fair, though, I feel like that’s my right. Y’know? All that to say, Joe has even more walls than you. I can’t say I’ve ever seen him completely relaxed. He’s always on guard. Sometimes, though, I’ve caught him. Forty will do something unexpected - like.

Okay. An example. It just happened.

We’re out on the veranda tonight, grilling. Joe’s handling the actual grilling; he says it’s the one thing he can do better than me, and of course I invited him to prove it. So he’s like, really seriously grilling these corncobs and burgers, and I’m watching. Like the whole point is that I’m watching him do it, he likes the attention and also the pressure. I think it still blows his mind that I love him, if I had to guess. And I do, because he doesn’t tell me shit. Not yet.

Anyways. Not the point. The point is how my brother goes “Hey, Sport, we should try and smoke something. Or have you ever had those cheese-stuffed burgers? Do we have cheese?” That sort of starts everything.

Joe was listening, of course. He’s always listening. I saw him do the thing he does when he can’t give his answer immediately. He goes somewhere else; he must consider it first. “Well,” he finally said. “I don’t think we have like six hours to smoke something.”

“Not tonight,” Forty said. “Whenever. We could make our own bacon.” He looked at me for support, as always.

“Yeah, that’d be cool,” I said, and looked at Joe. He makes this tense face when I agree with Forty, like he thinks we’re teaming up on him. Or he used to. He’s not doing it anymore. He didn’t do it then.

And of course, Forty hadn’t been able to handle the attention off of himself for one second, apparently, because he’d gotten his ass up off the couch and snuck over to us while Joe was lost in his reverie and I in mine. Then - and this is the thing - he surprised Joe by putting a hand on his shoulder and leaning in. And I saw Joe flinch, or wince, or something. “What do you say?” Forty asked in a stage whisper. “Bacon?”

As small as the flinch was, Joe putting his walls up was an even smaller thing. A thing in his eyes, I think. But he looked at Forty with something, almost a smile, and said, “Get whatever cheese you want.”

“Oh hell yeah. Dope.” Forty gave Joe’s shoulder an extra squeeze and then went off in search of cheese. So then, now, it’s just us.

I’m just noticing these things, that’s all I’m saying. It’s been happening, ever since I put the three of us on a plane. It just keeps happening. And I’m starting to think that Joe doesn’t hate Forty clinging to him. Not now that he understands who Forty is to me. Joe would do anything for me, that’s the point. Maybe he’d even have a friend.

I think I loved you a lot better, but you never made me fight for it. With Joe it’s a tug of war. I can’t take it easy on him, that’s not how we work. The only time we let go is when Forty’s involved. And that’s an arrangement I could live with.

“So?” Joe asks me when we’ve had our first bites. He’s on the couch next to me, watching me closely. His knee’s touching mine. “Give me the verdict, I’m dying.”

“You should be asking me,” Forty says. He’s sitting on the ground, feet bare, basically between us, facing us. He moved the coffee table to be here. “I’m the objective party, here. I’ve had both of your burgers, and I didn’t make either. Give me a vote.”

“You have a vote,” Joe says, the edge of condescension in his voice.

I’m not just giving him the win, I promise. I mean it. I would never lie about cooking. I have another bite to be sure, and then I weigh in. “Yes, and, if you wish to betray your twin by voting for my burger, instead of this slightly superior burger, I will revoke your good taste card.”

“Those aren’t real,” Forty tells Joe.

“Did you think they were, at some point?” Joe asks, with what sounds like actual delight.

“I was fifteen. The membership dues came with a very official-looking letter.”

Joe looks at me, and I have to smile. “I’m a high-effort kind of girl, what can I say?” I say to both of them. “If I’m going to prank somebody, it’s gonna be good.”

“It was unfair,” Forty pouts into his hamburger. “I didn’t know Photoshop existed.” That’s his line for this particular story, the laugh line. The one that’s supposed to make people go, like, wow what a young ingenue, he’s so innocent and trusting. This is a story with that purpose sometimes, at parties or whatever. And Joe’s good at picking up on these things, the ruts we’ve worn into our days - the days after you. Usually he fits himself right in them, because he wants to think that makes him one of us, a part of the family that we could never cut out. He doesn’t know that family’s more complicated than that. At least for Quinns.

I’m so busy thinking about what I’m supposed to say that I neglect to say anything at all. Even after two years, you’re still the most important thing on my mind most of the time. When he remembers that - or is reminded - Forty gets upset, so I pop back into reality prepared to do some damage control only to find Joe’s already done it. “This is really better?” he asks, and Forty’s now totally focused on him instead.

“Bro, it takes a lot to beat my sister, but this is a truly legendary burger. Do you grill on the reg?”

“Off and on,” Joe says. I think he’s joking, until he adds, “My, uh. Mr. Mooney loved a grilled bratwurst so.”

“Who?” I ask him. Sometimes I forget that as well as I know him, the person, I know so little about like, normal things.

And this is why; Joe kind of makes a face at that, screwing his mouth up and looking shifty. “He was…” I swear, I can see him deciding to tell the actual truth. “He was my foster parent,” he said grudgingly, and meets my eyes to check my reaction. He’s always checking, like I’m going to change my answer all of a sudden. Please.

“Oooooooh,” Forty says from the floor. “I didn’t know you were in the system.”

“Yeah,” Joe says. “I don’t exactly advertise it. But I can safely say my childhood was definitely not worse than yours, which is… frankly shocking.” It sounds like he means it, but I think he also meant it when he told me his dad used to hit him.

Forty drops his head, which isn’t a good sign. I watch him closely, but it’s Joe who prods Forty with his foot. He thinks about how he touches people, too, it never just happens. “Hey,” he says, and then he doesn’t seem to know what to say. He looks at me.

I don’t have any words. I use yours. “Bad’s a bucket, not a scale.”

“Poetic,” Joe says.

“True,” I counter. And either I’m right or he’s gonna let me think that, because Joe doesn’t argue the point.

I did say I wanted a family. When I said it, I guess I was thinking of something else. Something a little more traditional. White picket fence, three kids. I wasn’t thinking about you and your douche ass twin brother. Though, I also wasn’t thinking of a future where you know me quite as well as you do.

The villa is perfect, obviously, like everything else the Quinn family owns. We arrived to a fully-stocked fridge that we’ve taken advantage of, and bedrooms that smelled like fresh herbs and flowers. Note the plural; there are six bedrooms in this house, and yet your brother decides the only place he can possibly sleep is in the middle of us. Of course.

It’s not like he’s leaving me out - quite the contrary. Forty has latched on to me, most nights, since your arm has you out of commission. I’ve woken up most mornings with him wrapped around me, his head on my chest, or making my arm fall asleep, or pressed into my side. But he remains decidedly stuck between us, and that won’t do. You’re the reason I’m here. He isn’t.

So tonight, when we’re all getting in bed, I take charge. You’re ready first, sitting on your side, the right side, and reading - Joan Didion, making a point. I like it. I climb in bed next to you, put my arm around you, lean in and kiss your neck since you allow it. There is nothing in the world I want more than this.

“Hey compadres, make room for the third Musketeer,” your brother says brightly, sauntering into the room like he owns it. But that descriptor is hard to use when, in his case, he mostly does. 

“There’s room,” I tell him, and spread my arm out to the left. “Come on.”

He frowns for half a second, and I wonder if he’s about to give me some pushback, maybe some no homo freakout that I’ll have to handle. Even the New Age types can’t totally eradicate their homophobia.

“Fine, but no fucking with all three of us in the bed,” he says, and flops down next to me so hard we all bounce. “It’s gross,” he adds.

“We would never,” you assure him.

Forty usually waits till I’m sleeping to cuddle up, but tonight seems to be different. He scoots closer and closer, and then puts his head down on my shoulder, holds my arm in his. My other arm is around you, so it’s not like I need him to let it go. That’s the only reason I let him stay there. “Joe,” he says dreamily.

I take a second, to make sure frustration doesn’t bleed into my tone. “Yeah, buddy?”

“Do you hate us?”

“We’ve been over this,” I say. It’s not as nice as I could be, for you. But he’s not you, and I don’t know… it feels like I could be nicer anyways. “No. Given what I’ve done, it’d make me quite the hypocrite.”

It’s still weird to know you both know what I’m talking about, when I say things like that. To an extent. You smile down at your book. Forty holds tighter. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I get that. But I guess what I understand less is why you give a shit about _me_.”

I don’t. He’s lucky you do. But that won’t serve us well, won’t serve _you_ well. I know you want us to get along; you did all this work, just so the three of us could get out intact. I have to respect that. Yet again, you’re making me a better person. I’m lying for good reasons, this time. It comes pretty easy. “That’s easy,” I say. “You get me, man. You… understand. Like no one ever has, except Love. I appreciate that.” And if he can’t already tell, he’s an idiot. That’s not exactly news, though.

That’s apparently enough of an answer. He wiggles his way closer. “I’m trying,” he says. “Maybe if I understand what you did, I can understand what I did too.”

You stiffen next to me; interesting. Perhaps that rings true to you too. I’ll be sure to ask you later, if Forty falls asleep first or the next time we’re alone. He sleeps like a rock. I appreciate that about him, I’ve gotta say. Makes things easy.

“Yeah, well. Let me know if you learn anything,” I say to him, and he nods against my shoulder. After about ten minutes, he does fall asleep here, head on my shoulder, arm intertwined with mine. His beard sort of tickles.

“I think I’m doing okay, with him,” I tell you. “I’m trying.”

“You’re amazing,” you say, and close the book on your finger to look up at me. “Seriously. You don’t know how it’s been before, but. He’s doing great. He wouldn’t be doing this good without your help, and it’s making me feel _so_ much better. Thank you.”

“Good,” I say. “That’s all I need to hear.”

You like hearing that. You lean up and kiss my cheek. “You’re not worried about him trying to kill you, are you?” you whisper, with a smile in your voice. “‘Cause I guarantee he hasn’t thought about it once.”

That’s a good question. I’m surprised you needed to bring it up; I guess I’ve been too worried about you to consider it much. “I’m not,” I say. “But we need to nail down our…”

“Yes,” you agree. “Task number one when we get back.”

I could ask you when we’re going back. At some point we have to, right? We have to get back to reality. I’m not even sure why we’re here, besides you wanting us to have some time to relax. But that’s not important right now. You need your sleep, for the baby. So I just kiss your hair, and get you a glass of water. You always wake up wanting it.

Forty has woken up a bit, when I get back. Enough to tuck himself under the blankets, and to reach for me when I’m getting back into the middle. You turn the light off and lie on your back, as you’ve been doing, to avoid hurting your arm. I keep my distance from you, and Forty uses both arms to pull me back close to him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles in the dark. “Do you hate this? Would you sleep better if-”

“Shut up, and go to sleep,” I tell him. And then I move his arms. They’ll just go numb like this. He puts a hand on my chest, instead, and I put my hand over his. To make sure he won’t move or anything. I don’t want us to disturb you.

It won't surprise you that Mom decides to insert herself into this situation. As always, she can like, sense whenever me and Forty are actually happy and just has to ruin it. It's a compulsion, I swear. She needs us to need her, so of course we can't be too happy. I can't even imagine what she would've done to sabotage you and me; she hadn't really put her mind to it by the time she found out you were dying, so. I guess it's lucky we never found out. I'd hate to have to kill my mom.

I'm kidding. Mostly.

Forty saw her text first. We're on the couch. Me and Joe are sitting together reading and Forty on his phone with his head in Joe's lap. That's a development we'll talk about later - fucking incredible, right? But not the time. Forty twisted around to look at me, and when I met his eyes I could see how pale he was, suddenly. "Mom's coming," he said. "She's on a plane."

"Coming here?"

He nodded.

Joe was quicker on the uptake. "When's she landing?" he asked, and shut his book. Serious business.

"Five hours."

So that brings us to now. We're now at T-minus forty minutes, and my nausea is increasing exponentially, greater by the minute. Both the boys at least have been listening to me; we've cleaned the house basically from top to bottom. Mostly they have, really, since my arm still aches when I lift it. Joe's really good at cleaning - no surprise, though a bit of a grimace internally when I think about why - which kind of makes up for how Forty's never touched a vacuum. But that's not totally fair, Forty takes direction very well, and also Joe loves telling people what to do sometimes, like maybe in a way I've thought about bringing up to him in bed, if we're ever not sharing a bed with my brother. So the house is clean, she can't find fault with that. It'll be what we're wearing, or the wine we're drinking, or how I've got to stop running away when she put SO much faith in me at Anavrin. No mention, of course, that Forty's running too. Though, maybe in this case she'd be right in calling that my fault. She'll find fault with something, I can't stop it, and so, with forty minutes to go, I'm not sure what to do.

I want to break something. Maybe myself.

"Okay," Joe says, coming up to me in the kitchen. "Yard is pristine. Dead flowers removed."

"Thank you," I say with a deep breath. "That's just going to make me feel better, I guarantee nobody but me would've noticed, but."

"As long as you notice," he says with a bit of a smile. "What do you want, you want a drink? Some tea?"

"Yes," I answer immediately. "Please. And don't tell Mom about the baby."

"I promise." He smiles, kisses me. I think he likes being useful, and I find that very endearing - or at least I do when it's convenient.

God, I don't want to see Mom.

"Can I-" Joe begins.

"Just give me a second," I snap.

Forty comes in a few minutes later, walks straight into the tense silence of me trying not to binge drink and Joe attempting to give me space by staring out the window and holding a glass of water. He's too good at that. I wonder when I tell him just how much I know about his stalking habits. How much would it take to freak him out? Or could I keep him by being impressed?

"Well," Forty says - loudly, he wants attention. "It probably won't be that bad."

I give him such a look. If he's going to invalidate how I feel I swear to God I’ll just leave and he can visit with Mom alone if that's what he really wants. If it won't be that bad. "Just trying to be positive," he says in response to my face, and comes over to give me a hug. "We could probably team up and make some really bitching scones," he says while he's holding me. "If that's something that would help you."

I squeeze him tight. He's okay, he's right here in front of me, and I've kept him safe. If he believes Joe's a good person, he's not any threat. If he can just... keep being charming and too naive for Joe to ever believe he could be a threat, I'll have the time to figure out our long-term plan.

I wish I had longer with you. I think you would've understood me in time, just like Joe. And with you, I never had to worry you might go all Dexter and make me your next victim. That's a major plus. But I can't be thinking hypothetical right now. I have to be here for my brother, who's even more vulnerable to Mom than I am and who's putting on a brave face for my sake.

"I would love to make scones," I say to Forty seriously. "Joe, describe your familiarity with baking."

Joe has been watching us, stealthily. Now, he comes closer, and has a sip of his water to stall while he thinks of how to answer. His tics are so obvious. "Eating it, or doing it?" he asks.

"Alright. You'll be in charge of the lemon curd," I declare, and both of them smile, and I almost think that I can handle Mom this time, like. I don't know, like the two of them have given me antibodies.

We make some really incredible scones together, and I lose track of time enough that Mom opening the door surprises me. I don't think it surprises Forty, though. He looks up, and his face is an open book like it always is; I can see that he's scared, and then I see him take a deep, fortifying breath. And then, I also see Joe's watching both of us. He sees exactly what I see in Forty, I think, because he narrows his eyes a little, and turns to face my mom. "Dotty," he says warmly. "Great to see you."

He's such a liar. I'm so glad. Mom gives him a stiff, back-patting hug and a kiss on the cheek, and that gives me a second to drain my glass and straighten my shoulders. It's just my mom. This doesn't have to be a big thing.

Mom doesn't notice my arm. She manages, of course, to give me a less enthusiastic hug than she gave Joe, and then she crushes Forty against her chest like he's about to enlist or something. I do not make a face. "Oh darling," she says. "I was so worried, when I heard you'd gone off somewhere on a whim. And closing the store for a day? What was that about?"

"Listen, sometimes a person just needs a few weeks away," Forty says with believable patheticness. "I've been having a hard time, like, thinking about mistakes I've made, and-"

"We can't live in the past, dear," she says. If I say she cut him off, she'll say she thought he was done. Mom lets go of him. "Oh, you've opened the '96 Latour?" she asks, and heads for the wine.

Joe joins me, and looks at me. Attention and affection, I think - or he wants me to think. "Can I get you some more tea?" he asks.

"You're perfect," I say, and add _right now_ in my head. We kiss, for a second, and then he braves the kitchen with Mom. Forty leans on the island from the other side, watching them both, and I go stand next to him reluctantly. I don't know what she wants, it's making me insane. But the best thing I can do is bite my tongue right now.

Joe brings me my newly-full cup of tea and leans on the counter next to me. Moral support. Mom pours her own glass and one more, which is confusing until she hands it to Forty. "Mom," I have to say. "Sober includes drinking."

"It's just a bit," she says with a little shrug. "Lighten up."

Forty holds it gingerly, sort of swirls it. He liked wine, even as a kid. It was weird. But I can't take it from him, I can’t drink and Mom will be so pissed and I'm trying to hold this together a little longer, at least. I wish you were here. You understood just how fucking toxic she is.

While Mom's back is turned, Joe reaches across me, and puts his glass of water down to take Forty's glass of wine. It's smooth, a seamless gesture. He's sipping the wine when Mom turns back around, and she doesn't say a goddamn thing. I can't believe it. And Forty's trying not to smile next to me, running his finger down one of the grooves in the glass.

"Why are you here, Mom?" I ask, because I can't help myself.

"To spend some time with my children," she says brightly. "Let's go get some dinner."

It's four in the afternoon. I wasn't really anticipating a dinner with Mom where I'd have to be sober. This goddamn baby. And then Joe takes my hand, so that's when I realize I'm gripping the counter tight, white-knuckled. My arm aches. I can't think.

"Can we go to that place with the great chipirones?" Forty says after a second. God, I sometimes can't stand him. He acts like making her happy will make up for Dad not loving him, or something, or like he wants to pretend he's got one good parent. I don't know. I don't get it, in the moment, and he knows that so he won't look at me as he betrays us.

"Of course, darling," Mom says, and has the most tiny sip of her wine. "Joe, won't you join us?"

He looks at me, eyebrows raised. Glad he doesn't seem offended about Mom pretending he's optional. "I think I just might," he says, and the warmth in his tone helps me feel a little stable. I've got an ally here, looking out for Forty. Looking out for me. "What's chipirones?" he adds, past me at Forty.

Mom's watching the three of us, a calculating look on her face. I don't know what she's thinking. I don't want to find out.

Your mother isn't really a puzzle. She's never tried to do anything to me, not the way she does things to you, but she has ulterior motives. It's not hard to guess what. Figuring me out. Or trying to, at least. She's not my match, not like you are. So I'm happy to play her game. It distracts her from you, and you look on the verge of snapping whenever she's near you. It distracts her from Forty, too, and he's in pieces. I know, I don't need to tell you. But I've never seen anyone as fragile as him. He's trembling, and being so cheerful, acting like he doesn't have tears in his eyes, off and on. It's... it's weird, I don't know.

Dinner is fine, I think, but I also know I'm missing things. Your mom keeps making the type of comments that definitely mean something else, but I don't know exactly what. Not yet. So I don't focus on that. I focus on you. You both. That's where I get my cues.

Your mom says something that makes you clench a fist in your lap, so I take your hand and change the subject. She keeps offering Forty chances to drink, and I keep stepping in the best that I can. It's hard - what's the normal amount of times to touch your brother's hand to get his attention? Not that he minds, but it's just that your mom starts to notice. And I don't want her attention on me.

Forty starts talking about his screenplay at some point, which seems like it might be a safe topic. But your mom gets bored like four words in, and I watch you trying to make up for that just like you did on the welkend, knowing it's not what he wants, and something occurs to me. You're gonna be such an incredible mom. You've been parenting most of your life. I've got to try and catch up.

So when Forty makes his next attempt, when he starts talking about some indie movies he's interested in producing even without Candace - he doesn't seem to know she's missing, so I guess you didn't tell him everything - I put on my best listening face, and I pay attention. I ask him questions. I'm engaged as hell. And I've got to admit, it's rewarding to see him light up. To see your mom have to feign attention. That doesn't last long, she takes over the conversation to talk about her latest shaman, and the effect crystals have had on her tennis game. But Forty keeps glancing at me and smiling, and you're doing the same thing so I think I got it right.

Since your mom has been slamming down wine and iced tea all night, she eventually makes a trip to the bathroom. The moment she's out of sight, the two of you sag. "Jesus Christ," you say, rolling the shoulder of your injured arm. "Ow."

"Remind me, what's the point of this?" I ask.

"Mom's perfect family fantasy," you mumble, annoyed. "She loves to pretend."

"Also probably the whole gun thing," Forty says, digging his knuckle in his eye. "In the store. There are security cameras, I'm sure she's just waiting to bring that up. I hope one of you has an idea of what to say, because I definitely don't." Shit. I hadn’t thought of that.

"We'll tell her you were using," you shrug.

Forty blinks a couple times. "Right," he says blankly. "Because I'm the reason everything bad happens."

"No," I say immediately, to defuse this. We don't have a ton of time. You nod, agreeing with me. "Because she's gonna buy it. Okay?"

"I just don't like being the excuse for everything," Forty says. I know the signs well enough to see an imminent breakdown coming. “She’ll believe it because I’m a disappointment, is that it?”

“No,” you and I say together. “Absolutely not,” I add.

“But you’re the one who brought a gun into the store,” you continue. “So you’re the scapegoat right now.”

That doesn’t seem fair. It works, but I don’t love it. It’s just a one-time thing, though. It’s not a big deal.

And when your mom finally brings it up, Forty keeps it together through the excuse-making, I make sure of it. I put my hand on his knee under the table, and he takes a deep breath with his eyes closed, and he keeps it together. You’re so grateful. You kiss me when we’re waiting for the car. “You’re a miracle worker,” you say.

You appreciate me for what I do. That’s one of the things I love most about you. And if I have to coddle your dumb brother, I’m happy to do that.

So now Mom wants to stay here with us. Of course. My initial reaction is to leave immediately, but Joe makes a good point. Though, he makes it only after I harangue him into it, out on a balcony just the two of us. He has to be forced into giving me his true thoughts, so he's lucky I'm so good at forcing him.

"If we leave, right now, which we could," he finally says. "Aren't we giving her power? If we give it a few days, then she can't say it's about her."

"But it is about her," I say.

"Yeah, but we don't have to tell her that."

I like his smile even though I know it's a little creepy. I like being on the inside. "Okay. But I draw the line at quality time with her."

"Very fair."

"Don't kill my mom," I tell him firmly. "I've got dibs."

He doesn't know how to handle that, still, me joking about our shared predilection for that particular crime. I can see the hesitation in his face. "I'm kidding," I say, even though I'm not, really, and he loosens up.

"Does she only pick on you?" he asks after a second, looking out over the vista instead of at me. "Forty never gets..."

"Hit? No. He's the golden child, he's never done anything wrong in their eyes. He was a lot easier, though, as a kid, so like. I get it. And he sees how they... he's not blind, he sees what Mom does, but. It's different for him. Did you have siblings?"

Joe shakes his head, reluctant as ever to go into detail. "Only child," he admits. "Why?"

"So you don't have any sort of... reference point."

Again he shakes his head. "You guys are my first twins," he says, and then neither of us can keep from laughing.

Forty comes out then, smiling when he sees us. "Hey, fam. You feeling a little better, sis? I know Mom... harshes your vibe."

For once his face is less than impassive; Joe finds that very funny and a little annoying. I think he's softening. "I'm... appreciating the other people in my life right now," I answer Forty. "You okay?"

"I'm great," he says. I wonder if Joe can tell it's a lie. At first I'm waiting for him to continue - Forty never just answers a question. But then he's still quiet, so I look back at him and he's chewing on his thumbnail, looking at nothing in particular. "You're really pregnant, right?" he finally says to me.

I have to remind myself that he's not trying to scare the shit out of me. It just totally does, when I feel Joe look at me sharply. "Yeah," I say. "Otherwise I'd be drunk right now. Why?"

He shrugs. "Weird to think you're growing a person in there. When do we get to see it?"

"A couple weeks. I've got the appointment set up, we'll get to see the heartbeat and everything." I did that first, actually. I used the OBGYN we talked about, too. Part of me wants you included. But more of me, right now, is focused on my brother being so quiet. He's not like this. Even when he's high, he's always talking. "Hey," I say, and he knows my tones as well as I know his so he looks up at me and just gets what I want to ask. Everything.

He pulls me into a hug. For once I think I'm the one being comforted. "Let me handle Mom," he says.

"I love you too much to do that." I'm not making myself a martyr, I swear, I just mean it. It's worse when she turns on him than when Dad does, though she does it a lot more rarely. It totally crushes him in a way I can't watch.

"Get in here, sport," Forty says, and then I feel Joe joining the hug. Weird nickname. I can't decide if he finally watched Great Gatsby and overidentified with the protagonist, as usual, or if he's trying to sound even more fancy than usual to impress Joe. Both, probably. It's likely it's both. I don't know. Sandwiched between the two of them, I can't bring myself to care that much. He likes Joe, he gave him a nickname. Joe likes him back, too. More importantly, since Forty's never killed anybody.

"Here's a thought. You should both let me handle your mom," Joe says then, somewhere vaguely over my shoulder. "I don't mind her. I actually think she's okay, when she's not around you."

It's not a bad idea. He's uniquely suited to handling her brand of bullshit, and he can dish it as good as he takes. "Worth a shot," I say.

The craziest part is that it works. He actually handles my mother. He’s good at it. I guess her crazy and his crazy are complementary, or something. But either way, when Joe actually, properly puts his mind to it, he manages to make her love him, and then manages to convince her to leave and think it was her idea.

And, once we make it back from our retreat from reality, he keeps taking care of her, keeping her away from Forty and me. And all I can think, really, is how this is all an act to keep me on his side. But, I’m also kind of thinking what it would mean if he was doing it because he wanted to.

It seems like Forty needs us both now. Is it strange that I like it?

Let me explain, even though I know you won’t make me. I just feel like I should.

Forty’s delicate. You know he is. He’s emotional, and attached to most things, and rarely working from any sort of stable foundation. That’s just how he is. And I’m better at keeping things together, more adept at the kinds of things we need to do to keep our crimes secret. I’ve been through worse. So I’m just being practical. You can’t handle it all on your own; he definitely makes enough trouble for two, especially now that you’re pregnant.

When we get back, you set us up at your place, which has an extra bedroom - rarely used as more than storage for your kitchen appliances. And it stays rarely used, because the first night Forty asks - with a quivering lower lip, no less - if he could stay with us a few more nights, and you look at me, and I cave. Is it so wrong? To enjoy feeling needed. I don’t think you’d ever need me in quite the same way.

No, you need me differently. I’ve seen our baby. We all have, together in the doctor’s office. Right now it’s just a blob. Soon, it will be our child. And that means you’re taking it easy. I’m waiting on you hand and foot. So is Forty, when he thinks of it.

Forty has depths I hadn’t seen before, I’m man enough to admit it. He’s thoughtful, and responsible and selfless. I can’t cook dinner without him chipping in, chopping onions or babysitting a pan so you and I can share some sweet moment. He watches us with a smile, when I catch him at least. Against all odds, he settles down. And I have to say, I’m settling too.

I’m not used to living a life without my little secrets. And I have to say, I didn’t expect it to feel so full. I have more than enough to do, and all of it revolves around you. Because - and this is the big news - I have taken over Anavrin for you.

A while ago, you wouldn’t have trusted me. I don’t begrudge you that. Especially because now, you and Forty let me handle everything involving your mother, not just weekend plans but the store. And I know how much that store means to you both.

Without your mother involved, you relax. Forty develops a sense of self-worth. Or maybe it regrows. He becomes someone I hardly recognize, and like so much more than the person I originally met.

I come home from Anavrin one day, for example, and you’re napping. It takes so much sleep to grow a person. Forty’s the one making dinner, and I don’t have a favorite meal but he’s making that chicken you made me on our first not-date. “Hey, sport,” he says cheerfully, and it’s hard not to answer him with a smile. Even if I didn’t feel happy before, that changes when I see him. “Hungry?” he adds.

“Famished,” I say.

“Sit down.”

We’re halfway through dinner before I realize he hasn’t mentioned any pie-in-the-sky projects or wild ideas. He’s been asking me about my day, and really listening to what I have to say. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was interested. If it wasn’t just how he was, I might be tempted to read into the way he leans in, touches my shoulder when I say something funny. I know where his interests lie - bisexual pescatarian week was his idea, after all - but I guess I hadn’t thought about how relevant that might be to me, not before now.

I don’t want to trouble you with the question, so I have to find my way to asking him. Like he knows what I’m looking for, he gives me an opening.

“My ex-boyfriend loved this show,” he says when we’re all watching TV one evening. I’m between the two of you, your head in my lap and Forty’s head on my shoulder. “Well. Our ex-boyfriend,” he says then, and you whack his shoulder.

“You dated the same person,” I say, just to make sure it’s clear.

“Yeah, dude,” he says brightly. “Once and never again. I’m not interested in double dipping.”

Interesting. “I thought you only dated girls,” I say after a moment, as gently as I can. I don’t want him to get spooked.

“What? That has never been the plan. God. Don’t tell me you thought I was straight, that’s absolutely ruining the vibes. I thought you had at least a _little_ bit of a functioning gaydar.” Forty seems genuinely upset about this. I don’t know if I’m more worried about that or by the fact that I didn’t see this reaction coming.

“Well, I don’t know,” I say, trying not to sound defensive. “I try not to assume.”

“You love to assume,” you say absently, rubbing my and with your thumb.

Forty huffs at that, and looks back at me. “Look,” he says. “No harm no foul. But I am not and have not, and will not ever be straight. Alright?”

“Got it.”

Later that night, he has one more thing to add. Can’t resist getting the last word. “For the record,” he says when you’re in the bathroom, “if she didn’t have dibs, I’d totally be into your whole thing. We have the same types.” His smile looks genuine, with just a hint of an edge. I’ve seen that edge on you; I like it.

We buy a house together - another milestone that was supposed to be ours and instead goes to Joe. I try not to tally them up but it’s getting harder not to. We’re blowing through life on fast-forward. Don’t get me wrong, I love accomplishments. There’s something in me that feels competitively gleeful at just how quick we’re getting things figured out. But something about Joe has me feeling a little less than thrilled.

He’s just different now. In a million little ways that nobody else would notice, but they’re driving me insane. I’m home most of the time. All I’ve got is time to watch him. The tables have really turned, in that way.

I won’t be able to describe it except in specifics, so buckle in. And I know a lot of this doesn’t sound like much. Trust me. I know the guy better than anyone ever has. Maybe better than he knows himself. He definitely doesn’t know his tells, or he’d stop doing them, but I’ve got a whole categorized list.

He’s becoming detail—oriented. Big problem, right? Except it is. I’m being polite. He’s getting controlling as hell. I was involved in the house decision, to an extent. To a larger one, he made the final call and made a gross, obvious effort to try and sway me to his side. He’s getting more obvious, too. That’s gross. It’s like I’m with some overcompensating asshole off Raya again, and that’s not why I wanted to be with him.

Another issue: he’s spending more time in his head. In that place he goes when he’s planning things, scheming things. He’s spaced out more than he’s present, actually, if I tally up all the time. And I try not to do that, because I try not to give myself reasons to panic, but it’s not panic if I’m being reasonable.

I know I’m being reasonable, because of what’s probably the biggest problem - he’s started living without me. The other day, he told me our child will go to public school. Told me, not asked me. And, when I asked, he said that he’d already had the argument for us so I didn’t need to work myself up.

Like, what does that even mean?

Just kidding. I know what it means. It means he’s making me superfluous. And I’m not going to just sit around and wait for him to fall in love with a neighbor, or the checkout girl at Starbucks, or any of the other people I’ve caught him looking at. He’s more interested in my brother than me, and not like that bothers me too much, but. He’s looking at other people, that’s the problem. It’s breaking the deal we made. And since he broke it first, I don’t feel bad breaking it harder.

I have the baby - of course I have her, Joe doesn’t have any impact on that. Forty basically moves in to help me recover, but that only makes things worse. Then I get to notice how Joe’s spending more time making sure Forty’s happy than he is on me.

After that, I waste a lot of time hoping for things to change. I don’t want to have to do something. There’s none of the iron certainty I felt last time things got real. God, I can’t even talk about it outright. Hold on, let me work up to it.

The last time I wanted to kill him, it felt a lot more natural. I guess that’s the thing. I want it to feel right. But maybe deciding against it means it’ll never feel right again. Maybe that’s the deal I have to make with myself. I don’t know. But I found him watching Forty the other day, lost in his weird stalker headspace, and at that point it felt inevitable. He’ll move on if I give him the chance. I can’t give him that chance. I think that’s the best it’s gonna get.

Our baby’s four months old. I let him hold her one last time - and I wait, until he’s had a good day. I want him to remember a good day, if he can. I think I still love him, on some level.

But, at the end of the day I have to admit. He’s not you.

You draw a bath for us, and I must say I’m taken aback. From all that I’ve read, it usually takes a little longer for pregnant women to get back in the swing of things, so to speak. But you pull the bath mat out of the way - “In case we splash,” you say with an eyebrow waggle - so the intention is pretty clear. I’m not complaining. I’ll take whatever you give.

Your body isn’t the same as it used to be, it’s different. Recovering. I almost don’t notice, though. It’s such a delight just to see you. It’s been so long. I can’t get undressed fast enough, but you beat me into the tub anyways, sinking into one side and hugging your knees to your chest. The water plays at the ends of your hair, and you watch me with a smile.

I get in the bath with you, sliding into the warm water, and I lean forward to kiss you. “I missed this,” I tell you. “Us.” And it’s true, it is, but some of this feels performed. Maybe I’m just rusty.

“Come here,” you say. “Let me hold you.”

I don’t know that we’ve ever done this. I’m a little taken aback. But it does feel nice, to be held in your lap. Your arm around my shoulder, your lips on my ear. “I’ve thought about this for so long,” you say.

“Me too,” I begin to say. And that’s when you elegantly, easily, slit one of my arms open. Wrist to elbow. And hold the knife against my other wrist.

Several things occur to me slowly. Like the bath mat, for example. Of course. She wouldn’t want the bathmat to get any blood on it. That’s a lot harder to clean than our pristine tile floor. And how she’s still hugging me, an arm around my shoulders.

“What are you doing?” I manage to ask, and she just holds me where I am. I’m, in the moment, too numb to fight.

“Please,” she says. “You know what I’m doing, and you know why I’m doing it, and you should stop fighting this. It’ll be easier for everyone.”

“What the fuck do you mean, it won’t be easier for me,” I protest, and try to twist from her grip but she just presses into the open cut she made with her elbow and my arms go limp.

“It will,” she says, so understanding. “It will be so much easier than having to explain to our daughter that you tried to commit suicide, regretted it, and died anyways.”

“What?” My head’s spinning. The tub water is rapidly turning pink. 

“That’s what it would look like. Not just to her, but to Forty, too. You remember how poorly he does with these kinds of things. The thought of you bleeding out, desperately wishing you hadn’t just slit your wrists… that would probably break his heart. And you don’t want to break his heart.”

I try to think of a universe in which I’m able to get this knife from her and stop her, but one arm’s still not responding to my commands, and the other isn’t strong enough, not with her wrapped around me like this. She’s got me trapped. But because it’s her, there’s no glass box, no negotiation period, no logic. I have maybe five minutes.

I do I lot in those five minutes. I try all the things I always was too brave to before.

“I’ll change,” I tell her.

“You can’t,” she says, and kisses my cheek. “And I can’t either.”

“I still love you,” I try to claim next. I can still lie to her, I’m sure of it.

But she laughs a little, and holds me closer, and says, “It’s funny how you still think you’re smarter than me. It’s something I really liked, at first. Having to prove myself. But then I realized, I would never be safe. And I wouldn’t be able to keep my family safe.”

Her family. The child she had to lower my guard and the brother she lies to.

“What was that?” she asks. “You go somewhere every time I mention my brother.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do. Are you in love with him?”

I scoff. And then I feel… it. The rush. I’ve found you. It’s not her I love. It’s you. Somehow she knew before I did.

“No,” I say.

“Again with the lying,” she says, and while I’m dazed, cuts my other arm open. I’m so dizzy I can hardly stay upright. “It’s okay,” she says then. “That you love him. He loves you too. And I promise, I’ll never tell him the truth.”

Suddenly, that’s the most important thing I can think of. “Don’t,” I beg her. “Don’t tell him.”

The last thing I hear is her voice, the sound I used to love most in the world. “Never. He doesn’t suspect a thing.”

I guess it makes a certain sort of noble sacrifice, this end. Really, I’m not mad. You couldn’t live without her, so you’ll have to live without me.


End file.
